Snag a Snag: The Lazy Girls Eating Guide

Today I stopped by Bunnings just to get a sausage. I wandered in the door to make it look like I had a legitimate reason to be there and all I did was pat a dog (yes, people can and do take their dogs to Bunnings, note to single men out there, take your dogs to Bunnings, it is an excellent place to pick up).

Once I felt like I’d done enough to disguise my reason for visiting, I jumped in line, surrounded by people balancing bags of soil, new plants to shove in their garden and genuine power tools. There I was, empty arms, free hands ready to grab the snag as it was placed in front of me. I certainly didn’t feel even a pang of guilt (okay, maybe just a little…)

You see, the only thing that I’d achieved so far at that stage in the day was getting out of bed, showering (the thoroughness of which could be questioned) and meeting a friend for brunch. Yep, you read that correctly; I ate fancy hipster brunch (I paid $14 for a toasted sandwich that, granted, tasted like it had been carefully constructed by heavenly angels) and as that substantial yet probably overpriced jaffle was still digesting, I took a detour on my way home just so that I could shove a charity snag down my gullet too. $2.50 is what I directed towards the Mile End Rotary Club (I’m not sure of their profit margin, maybe they only made 50c out of that interaction, maybe they pocketed $2).

I think guilt and shame were probably the two biggest things I felt at that moment, closely followed by confusion as to why I felt so strongly about having consumed a sausage in any way at all. Surely I had more important things to be concerned about? Nah not really, it was a Saturday afternoon and I’m a middle class white woman. Sure there are still plenty of challenges facing us but I have a strict “feminism in business hours only” policy (I’ll explain it some time, but it’s the weekend now so I can’t) so I was feeling fairly care free.

One thing I do know about myself is that regardless of how full I am, there are certain things that I will always make room for in my stomach; brie, double brie, triple brie, vintage cheddar with pickled onions, chocolate covered pretzels and Bunnings sausages. So help me God if all of those things are readily available in the one location at the one time.

Should I feel ashamed about the power that my tastebuds hold over me? From an ethical stand point, probably. From a social stand point though? Nah, get stuffed. Life was made for living and Bunnings sausages were made for binging on. There’s just something about them that makes them way better than the snags that you’ll consume at a family BBQ but I just can’t put my finger on it…oh yeah it’s the relative anonymity (if you choose a Bunnings far away enough) and the lack of judgment from Aunty Joan; “If you eat another bite you’ll never look good in a white dress dear.” Oh shut it sugar, at least I’ve still got time to fix myself, you made that mistake 20 years ago sweets – and it wasn’t your ass that was the problem, it was your face. Yeah.

Despite the fleeting confused feelings earlier in the day, at home later I realised; when you can make a microwave meal without double checking the box instructions then you know you’re in a special place in life. You’ve been eating meals of sadness just long enough to be aware exactly how they should be prepared but not long enough to just hit up eat now or Uber Eats every day (that’ll come in about three months time).
I’m not stuck in that place forever but that’s where I found myself today. And shit, they’re getting so good at making meals in a box that I rekon I’ll just stay home and dodge queues at the hardware store – especially if someone starts a delivery service where an average looking guy brings over a dog and lets you pat it and suddenly you think he’s an absolute hunk.


I Tried The Curry at Snowtown Servo (So You Didn’t Have To)

Have you heard about the curry at the Snowtown Service Station? No? That’s tragic!

A quick and innocent Google search of the term ‘Snowtown’ inevitably returns a Wikipedia page detailing the gruesome murders and decaying corpses, an IMDB link to the film that dramatized them and numerous news reports with in depth information explaining exactly how it all unfolded. Not a single page mentions the absolutely top notch curry and fried chicken that can be found at the Snowtown Servo. I believe that this is an absolute travesty that needs to be rectified post-haste so I took one for the team and ventured (far) past Gepps Cross to retrieve curry so good that it should be consumed by the barrel full.
An hour and forty five minutes from Adelaide’s CBD is where you’ll find this curry and do not doubt me when I say that is worth every mile. Sure it may seem dodgy and mates, please don’t get your expectations up – a road side BP is what I’m talking about but it is the roadside BP of your dreams (if your dreams include bathrooms that may or may not have been cleaned since Snowtown was last in the news…). The curry though? It’s good enough to kill for – I shit you not.


I know I’m not alone in thinking this either; the only way to discover a gem like this is through word of mouth and I’d had at least three people tell me to get my ass here before I finally committed. Need any further convincing? Just ask anyone who regularly drives out to that side of the state what they think of the curry at Snowtown – it is known.
If you’re like me then you may be thinking; “I am a sensitive little first world flower, is a road side truck stop really the best place to eat a volatile curry? What if it doesn’t agree with my gentle stomach and I find myself 50km from anywhere with the feeling of severe regret hitting my belly?” Well fear not petal, for I have pushed the limits here many a time. I have stopped and eaten and then put left over curry in my car only to continue eating it a few hours later. Chicken too. And much to the disappointment of many, I am not dead yet.
I’ve tried the butter chicken, the lamb madras, the mango chicken, the cashew chicken and the beef Vindaloo (and likely more…) like I said; it’s been…a few visits. Every single item tastes as if it were made carefully by beautiful Indian angles, brought down from the heavens to allow the folk from the mid north the chance to once and for all know true happiness.
Add to that the fried chicken. Yes, fried chicken. Ten points already for providing those passing though with the greatest food known to mankind however delivering in terms of quality? Bloody legend status that is. Crunchy on the outside featuring delicious flavor whilst maintaining a moistness that can only be rivaled by…well, I don’t feel safe mentioning when children could read this.
When it comes to the food, it’s all bang on here. Even if it wasn’t I probably wouldn’t bring it up for fear of retribution. Despite the fact that the towns’ reputation is due to crimes committed beyond its own boarders, I just wouldn’t want to risk it.
I’m certainly not the first to say it – in fact I definitely stole this from my boyfriend, but why is Snowtown not famous for its curry?!

I meant to take a photo of the curry…but I took it home and ate it before I had the chance.

I Tried KFC’s Cola Wicked Wings (So You Didn’t Have To…)

There has been much hype surrounding KFC’s new Cola BBQ Wicked Wings (mostly on KFC’s own Facebook page which I follow since I am of the sincere belief that simply seeing pictures of fatty food (and then consuming it) can make a hangover literally disappear).
It was due to this genius marketing technique (and a stream of constant ads on Spotify) that I found myself drawn to find out if they lived up to the hype.

The Feedback online was solid:


Bella called them Heaven – a good sign however she seemingly blamed KFC for her allergy to pulled pork (or just pork in general, I’m unsure) so perhaps her mental stability was questionable.


Jack loved them so much that he wanted to throw caution to all human biology and seemingly consume his own blood? That’s commitment to a cause bro.


And Hemant called KFC the best thing that happened in his life. And that’s understandable, his name is Hemant, literally everything that happened after he was named was probably a bonus.

I thought carefully about what I was planning to inflict upon my body. I’d already worked out that day (I went for a walk and then spent an hour in the yard attempting to hula hoop, finally getting the hang of it as my speakers blasted Ricky Martin’s Livin La Vida Loca and a young Indian family looked on curiously from the balcony that has a perfect view into my yard). Plus I hadn’t eaten since the previous night – it was now 2pm. I showered (after taking a photo of myself in my active wear to prove that I’d worked out) and momentarily considered putting on the jumper from the night before deciding against it due to the large curry stain on the front.


I decided upon wearing this T-shirt that was my favourite when I was 12 years old, for several reasons; 1) because dolphins are bad ass, 2) because it feels good to still be able to wear the same thing that fitted me when I was twelve (even if it does remind me that I was a bit of a chubber as a kid) and 3) I think the whole look I was going for made me come off as younger. I think it is okay to feast on KFC alone when you’re closer to eighteen than thirty so I tried to make it seem that way.

As I got in the car (even though KFC is a ten minute walk) my phone buzzed – hazzah, I’d reached my daily step goal. I really did deserve this.

I set my goal embarrassingly low so that I can always achieve it without actually trying.

I hit up the Prospect KFC on Main North Road, even though I’ve previously had shit experiences there (I once rode my bike here, drunk, only to wait so long for my food that I was sober by the time I re-mounted my treadly). I took the risk and history had a mild repeat; only one attendant already serving a woman who seemed to be the most painful customer in all known history but I felt for the girl behind the counter so I put aside my judgement and politely waited in line. When my turn came I placed my order (3 x Cola BBQ Chicken Wings, Large Chips and Gravy and Large Frozen Mountain Dew) while mentally taking note of the energy intake because I just love to hate myself (at least 4,440kj, around half the daily recommended intake for an adult – YAY).
The food arrived and while I was mildly irritate that I had to ask for the cutlery pack (containing the all important trademark KFC wet wipe) I was excited for what promised to be a flavour sensation.

I decided to eat in because I’m concerned my housemate already thinks I’m a failure at life, I didn’t want to add fuel to the fire.

The woman at the table next to me was repeatedly asking her daughter (Erin Ray – I assume it is spelled like that but on surface appearance, this woman likely spelled it “Erryne Rayé”) if she needed to go to the toilet and to stop standing on the table so I decided to put my headphones in. I chose R Kelly’s ‘Bump n Grind’ because chicken is a really sensual food and deserves a sound track to match (I chose to pretend that R Kelly has never experienced controversy to ensure that I could better enjoy my juicy snack, I’ve shared the lyric video version below so that you can enjoy the song without SEEING R Kelly.).

That look I give you when you suggest “R.Kelly and Chicken”

First I licked the sauce – I apologise if that is a visual that you never wanted in your mind however it was worth it. The sauce truly is the real highlight here. Every flavour that my tongue has experienced up until now pales in comparison (and I once had pasta sauce made with condensed milk). Angels sang and unicorns danced with every flavour hit. This sauce really is absolutely everything that was promised – I don’t care what comes out of your Italian Grandmothers kitchen, it is total rubbish compared to this gift from the Gods – in fact, nothing this tasty could come from Heaven, as the name implies only the devil could supply something so delicious,which makes sense since we all know that The Colonel was no saint.
The chicken was a nice bonus. Could have been hotter, skin was good, like I said, everything else pales in comparison to the sauce.

Sad because there is none left, also sad because my body is trying to reject everything I just filled it with.

As I took my last bite I removed my headphones, sat back and took in the scenery. Playing over the in store sound system was ‘Let Her Cry’ by Hootie and The Blowfish, which seemed weirdly appropriate. There was a woman in her mid-forties sitting not too far away, digging into a family feast all alone, a sign in the window encouraging KFC customers to donate to a charity raising funds for starving children and in the car park a ute with a sticker that disturbingly proclaimed “Dip me in honey and throw me to the lesbians”. Despite being surrounded by such sadness, despair and grotesque horror I was in my element – truly in love with a sauce.

If KFC offered me to (please do) I would consume every meal for a month with that sauce on it and I will pray to God that my boyfriend likes the KFC Cola BBQ sauce because if my wishes come true it won’t be long before my body tastes of it. God bless you junk food giants.

The best thing about the internet is not actually porn…

There is one thing in the world that makes my heart beat faster, that makes me weak at the knees and causes subtle yet classy salivation. I think about it for days on end, I fantasise about it while chained to my desk, I dream about at night and wake up with on my mind for the entire morning. I’m talking about food – good food. Actually, let’s be honest, sometimes it doesn’t even have to be that good – because every now and then every girl likes to have a naughty little thought about that burger that you’d be way too embarrassed to introduce to your parents – and apologies for my terrible analogies but there’s some fried chicken interrupting my chain of thoughts.

I like thinking about food almost as much as I like eating it. Which is why I think the greatest thing that the Internet has ever allowed for is the dissemination of menus to the masses. I can sit at work, wondering what I would I should sink my teeth into later that night and at the touch of the button, the limitless options are right there in front of me. While the moans at the thought of future pleasure that are expelled from behind my screen could cause potential embarrassment and a call from the HR department, I have no shame. Nothing will ever end my love of the online menu – except for one thing that is…well one sentence; “oh, we’re all out of that today” – you what mate? You’re out of that thing that caused me to drool on my keyboard just at the thought of it? Or even worse – a superior specials board. Nothing else breaks my heart more than deciding on exactly what to consume, only to arrive and be distracted by tantalising options previously not advertised. Decision making is not my strong point and now I have to reject one food option? Not cool.

Okay, I’m pretty pleased with online menus…but yeah wouldn’t complain about being able to download cheesecake…

I’m of the belief that every ones problems are relevant to them and their unique situation, and while my issues might seem minimal to you, they mean a lot to me. Please do not invite me somewhere that does not have an online menu. I will not be able to make it through the day. The anticipation of the unknown will more than likely cause me a mental breakdown – I’m not saying it’s happened before but I’m not saying it hasn’t. That’s all. Basically.

Online menus make life worth living.

Beans on Toast…

I would genuinely like to know who decided that gourmet = good. Was it one person or was it a group of evil food marketing geniuses who all got together in the mid to late nineties and declared; “the humble baked bean in a can will no longer suffice for a Sunday night meal, we must convince the world that they want, neigh, they need beans with sun dried capsicum and tomato, finished with a gentle flavouring of paprika”? I apologise for the super long sentence but I just can’t contain my confusion. I actually like normal baked beans. I also like the kind that come with that fake extra cheesy flavouring – on occasion. Don’t get me wrong, I’m also a sucker for a good old Sunday cafe breaky featuring stuff I can’t even pronounce properly – I mean apparently it’s kinwa…but it’s spell quinoa! I JUST CAN’T COPE, I TOOK FRENCH IN PRIMARY SCHOOL AND SUDDENLY I HAVE TO SPEAK SPANISH TO EAT. I can’t…I just can’t even. Maybe on my behalf, it’s an act of rebellion – you see my mum was all about sneaking the fancy things into my lunchbox – all I wanted was ice berg lettuce in my sandwich like the other kids but she thought I’d prefer rocket. I wanted normal old coon and I got Camembert or Feta. What kid actually asks for pine nuts in a lunch time salad? They just do not. This being said, I do like to consider myself a foodie but I guess my point is, why is it not percieved as being as good if it’s not gourmet? I love me a gourmet burger as much as the next twenty-something foodie but (and don’t tell anyone) I often find that my tastebuds can be just as delighted by a basic corner store burger cooked on a dirty big greasy grill. Sometimes I really just crave those hot dogs with the mystery meat. Not often, but every now and again I’d just rather get a service station pie than a handcrafted work of pasty art – surely I’m not the only one?! Recently I heard about a trend of reverting back to more ‘simple’ foods – brilliant I thought, I can return to the supermarket and begin buying the plain old crinkle cut chips again, rather than the rosemary and sea salt “country cut” ones. I like both kinds, It’s just that I feel judged (to be honest it’s probably just in my head…) when I buy the ‘non-fancy’ ones…But I was wrong – when they said ‘simple’ foods they meant raw eating, with all these buzz words thrown in – chia, cacao and coconut oil…things that have been around for many years (apparently) but only in my vocab for the last few. I guess this all sounds a little ‘first world problemy’ but I needed to release my rage somehow. I just tried to make myself a basic peanut butter sandwich for lunch before realising that even our bread has pumpkin seeds in it – as horrible as it can be, some times I really do crave that sweet chemical filled white stuff of other people’s childhoods. As I sit here nibbling on the my multi-grain pita that I’ve topped with (wait for it) “chilli chipotle, grilled capsicum and cashew dip” I wonder, could I get together with a bunch of smart, like minded people and make basic white bread cheese sandwiches hip? Probably not, but a gals got to have a dream….!

Multi-grain pita teamed with fancy schmancy dip...when all I wanted was white bread and peanut butter...
Multi-grain pita teamed with fancy schmancy dip…when all I wanted was white bread and peanut butter…(I’m so secretly ashamed that I didn’t even feel like taking a decent photo)

The Unhappiest Meal in The World.

Tuna and salad a meal does not make. There, I said it, all you little healthy do gooders out there can put that in your pipe and smoke it. Not that you would because it probably defeats the purpose of eating well but I’m sure you get the gist of it. My point? Eating tuna and salad for lunch today has made me incredibly unhappy.

It tasted fine – definitely not bland but…eugh it was tuna….and….salad.
I could have been eating delicious cold rolls with some tasty peanut sauce but instead I decided that I would a) try and save money b) use the left over salad from the fridge, and c) eat a little bit more healthy.
That’s where I screwed myself over, once and for all and ended up eating TUNA SALAD for lunch on a Tuesday.

People tell me that they LOVE eating salad. There is a name for these people; liars.

I learned at an early age that ‘you don’t make friends with salad’ and this sound advice has stuck with me through life. Yes, one day my anti-salad ways may catch up with me and my friends will be forced to roll me off the couch and down the street to the heart specialist (stopping for a burger along the way, just to keep me happy) but until that day I will without a doubt be waving the ‘no tuna salad for lunch’ flag and working hard at the gym to maintain my salad free lifestyle.

I hope you’re having a happy and salad free Tuesday, good people of the world!

Salad is bad, mkay?
Salad is bad, mkay?